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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724055">Taste Twelve</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cacilie_Blaas/pseuds/Cacilie_Blaas'>Cacilie_Blaas</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Andrés scoffs in Gay Panic, Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Flirting with myths and metaphors, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Martín gasps in Gay, and they both are dumbasses I don't make the rules</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 10:07:34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>7,057</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23724055</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cacilie_Blaas/pseuds/Cacilie_Blaas</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“The thing, Martín, the thing is... I’m dying. So believe me when I say my time is far too precious a currency these days. I wouldn't be spending it if it wasn't worth it. And you, my friend, are worth all the time in the world. More than I have left.” </p><p>_____________________________</p><p>Or, the one where Martín learns his best friend's fate and Andrés finally pulls his head out of his ass</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>78</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>387</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/viajeramyra/gifts">viajeramyra</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>A while ago, I started hearing about LCDP thank to my friend Myra. It took me a while to catch up, but I finally did and, in the process, fell in love with Berlermo. </p><p>Thank you Myra, for all these hours spent talking about the characters and their motivations, for being an amazing friend and author always weaving amazing stories for this fandom.</p><p>—</p><p>Special thanks to Kim, Liz and Kitty who all looked at my draft and reassured me in their own way about my ability to write in English despite all my Unnecessary French at time.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Weddings were meant to have the taste of a never-ending fairytale and from where Martín was standing, this wedding looked the part. Andrés seemed radiant, the Mediterranean sun kissing the tops of his cheekbones and making his eyelashes flutter as if in pleasure. The suit looked expensive, the sky blue fabric cut to precision, looking bold across the groom’s broad shoulders while hugging the lines of his waist almost tenderly. </p><p>Martín was keeping to the shadows, wanting to shield himself from the sun but still have a direct view of the celebration. The party was in full swing and he could see Andrés out there, singing raucously and trying to get his brother to dance with him. Andrés threw his head back in laughter, probably from something Sergio had said and Martín had to avert his gaze.</p><p>It almost hurt to look at Andrés for long, sometimes. Like trying to stare directly into the sun. Light bounced off of his shiny suit as he moved and traced the sharp lines of his jaw, his throat, throwing him in sharp relief. Almost as if the light was coming from within him.</p><p>Maybe Martín was, as Icarus before him, in love with a sun. He knew he was flying too close, how dangerous it was. He knew getting burned was the price he would pay. But he was also certain he could never stop, when each smile was like a dawning sun, subtle but no less enchanting.  </p><p>Today, though— today, he could feel the burning sting acutely. His love tasted like ash, swirling in the air along the flutter of Laura’s wedding dress, dulling the light of the day and getting into his eyes, making everything blurry. He could feel the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes as he stared. He needed to let it all out, collect up the pieces of his heart and move on.</p><p>Andrés was happy and despite the animosity Martín felt for the fortunate fourth wife it was all that mattered. He had tried to hide how unhappy he was—danced a little, drank a little, lamented left and right about the food, seemingly friendly and content— but whenever the couple turned their back the varnish cracked. </p><p>In front of him, the newlyweds kissed softly and Martín's well-crafted mask finally shattered to pieces.</p><p> </p><p>Quietly, he left. </p><p> </p><p>He walked around aimlessly, unable to see where his feet took him, a little drunk on the wine and melancholy. The villa, rented for the day on Lago di Como, was boasting with frescoes, tapestries and paintings, every lavish detail slapping him with the feeling of inadequacy that threatened to submerge him. </p><p>He found himself standing in a quiet hallway. In the ornate mirror that hung across from him on the wall, a rumpled looking man was gazing back at him with a tired smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. His creased clothes made him look even more dejected and he let out a somber chuckle.</p><p>“Martín?” </p><p>He was jerked out of his dark thoughts by his best friend's voice echoing through the corridor. In a slight panic, he pushed through the first door he could find, yearning for cover, not wanting to face the other man just yet. Looking around, he found himself in a cramped room filled with food. He cursed under his breath as he realised that out of all the rooms in this damned place, he had unwittingly trapped himself in the fucking pantry.</p><p>“Martín? Is that y—” he heard Andrés' voice calling as the door opened,  “— ah yes, there you are! Should I ask what you’re doing in here instead of dancing with the rest of us outside?”</p><p>He simply shrugged, stalling for time to put himself back together. It was quicker than he thought it would be, habits making it easier for Martín to find the mask of his more cheerful persona.</p><p>“Oh please, we danced enough, my feet are begging for a break. And shouldn’t you be entertaining Laura instead of stuffing yourself in a closet with me?” Martiín asked, his stupid mouth running ahead of his brain, “or are you bored of this one already, my friend?”</p><p>Andrés scoffed at that, uneasy despite his attempt at acting casual, and the ice-cold of dread and longing clutched Martín’s heart. He laughed then, a little too late, a little too raw, uncertain of what his friend might make of his attitude. Thankfully, Andrés politely didn’t push.</p><p>“Laura is still as lovely as always, thank you very much.” Something almost teasing curved Andrés lips, and the thing lurking deep inside Martín wanted to scream in agony. “You’re less fond of her than you were of Maria… Something you’re not telling me?”.</p><p>Andrés’ strong hands softly reached for his best friend’s shirt collar, straightening it. He sounded concerned, which made the whole affair more difficult for Martín. Andrés’ parade of lovers had been slowly chipping away at Martín’s patience, the other man chasing after love like some would chase gold. The thought made his heart ache. He had wished more than once for his feelings to go away but, as years came and went, he had come to accept the tragic depth of his love and the razor edge of his jealousy. He had never been too good at lying to himself, but he thought he had been doing better, these last few months. He acted as nothing more than a friend, trying to simply enjoy every one of their moments alone together. It was fortunate that Andrés devoted all his attention to whoever was smart enough to captivate him because whenever they were together, Martín felt like the more interesting man alive. </p><p>“You’re acting strangely. Are you feeling alright?”</p><p>“Drunk,” Martín replied, trying for fake cheer. “Kinda. You know how I get when there is something to celebrate!”</p><p>“To celebrate, yes…” Andrés’ voice trailed off, and it suddenly seemed obvious to Martín that his friend wouldn’t be here, stuck in a stupid pantry with him on the day of his wedding, if something wasn’t bothering him.</p><p>“Is something wrong, Andrés? Why are you here?”</p><p>As if to confirm his suspicions, Andrés’ eyes suddenly refused to meet his, his gaze instead roaming the room for something else to settle on. A strange bitter smile appeared on his lips as he picked up a round fruit that could have passed for an apple, if not for the curiously crown-shaped top.</p><p>“Do you know that the pomegranate has had several symbolic meanings attributed to it ever since it was discovered?” Andrés said, one of his thumbs softly caressing the odd-looking skin of the fruit.</p><p>The change of subject didn’t impress Martín and he struggled to keep the feeling of dread that had started crawling at the back of his consciousness at bay. “Just say whatever you have to say, you probably have better things to do than waste your time with me today.”</p><p>“Ah,” Andrés exhaled, “but that’s the thing. You see, hidden inside this fruit are many things I wish I could have told you.” Martín opened his lips to interrupt and ask him to <em>por favore</em> make sense, but Andrés stopped him with a commanding gesture of his hand, the movement as serious as his eyes were. “Some of them I’m not sure I know what to do with, but I'm sure I could have figured them out, if I just– if I just had more time—,” he said, his body swaying before he caught himself, shaking off the unusual uncertainty. He smiled then, though it looked frail. “The thing, Martín, the thing is... I’m dying. So believe me when I say my time is far too precious a currency these days. I wouldn't be spending it if it wasn't worth it. And you, my friend, are worth all the time in the world. More than I have left.” </p><p>“<em>¿Qué mierda?</em> What— What did you just say?” He must have misheard him, “Are you fucking with me?”</p><p>“I’m dying,” Andrés said once again, his smile shaky, “I have three years left, according to my physician— five at most.”</p><p>“You’re dying?” Martín repeated flatly, tasting the words on his tongue, trying them in hope they would make sense. They didn’t. “That's not funny.”</p><p>“I never said it was,” Andrés said, and the seriousness of his words finally registered. </p><p>It felt as if the world suddenly tipped and Martín’s senses were failing him. “You’re— you— Andrés.” He heaved in a desperate breath, then said. “You’re lying. You can’t.” The more he stared unbelievingly at Andrés' smiling face the more his throat clogged up with grief. It was a soft cutting thing, that smile, frozen in place by the deep terror Andrés couldn’t quite mask yet.</p><p>“We’re all dying, <em> cariño </em>. Just some of us sooner than others.”</p><p>“Shut up! Shut up, shut up for fuck’s sake <em>pelotudo</em>, you can’t just tell me this like—like it doesn’t— you just can’t!”</p><p>Martín reached for him then, though he was usually careful with his touch, afraid of being too greedy and losing everything. Inveterate player that he was, the gamble never seemed to be worth it until this precise moment. He threw his fears away, needing to feel him against him, warm, alive and his to cherish. His friend’s shoulders trembled beneath his hands and it gave him enough courage to pull him closer, to rest his forehead against Andrés’. And how terrifying it was, to feel the man he loved actually respond to his touch, leaning in with need when he usually pulled away, pressing closer when he used to push away. He heard the thud of the pomegranate hitting the ground before he felt Andrés' hands wrap around his neck, clinging back.</p><p>“Is it like your mum, what was it—”, Martín asked, ignoring how wrecked he sounded.</p><p>“Close. Cancer.”</p><p>“Oh.” Martín closed his eyes, a shuddering breath rocking his entire frame. He didn’t even care that Andrés could feel him. He was beyond caring. Beyond hearing or seeing.</p><p>“Is there a treatme—”</p><p>“I won’t go through it. It’s not for me,” came the reply. Martín could feel Andrés' warmth sipping through the layers of clothing separating them. His personal sun. His best friend, faintly trembling with so much life. </p><p>Still, he pulled away angrily.</p><p>“What do you mean you won’t, what about—” <em> Me </em> , he wanted to say, <em> what about me </em>, but instead, he said, “What about Laura?”</p><p>“She doesn’t know. Yet.”</p><p>“And you went and married her anyway?! What were you fucking thinking Andrés?!”</p><p>“I was thinking that it didn’t matter. I only opened the letter with my results today and I was thinking that whatever was inside was not going to dictate my life. I was thinking I needed to tell you first. Was it a mistake?”</p><p>It hurt that his anger was met with so much calm. Martín gestured at the space separating them, trying to express the suffocating distress that was threatening to drown him. Andrés had told him first. <em> Him </em>. Because their relationship, their friendship mattered most. But if it was because Andrés expected him to be the one to keep a level head, then Martín was failing badly. He could feel the blood rushing in his ears, and he had to look away when meeting Andrés’ searching eyes hurt too much.</p><p>“I’m going to tell her.” Andrés said, absently pulling down on his jacket and adjusting the fit across his shoulders.</p><p>“Why didn’t you tell her before the wedding took place? You suspected something after all but you didn’t tell me, or Sergio or even Laura! You couldn't trust us enough to tell us, but you knew something was up.” He didn’t mean to sound so accusing, but it still came out that way.</p><p>“What would it change? She loves me.”</p><p>And he wasn’t wrong. After all, Martín loved him, too. And as devastating as the news was, it didn’t change his feelings for Andrés, only the depth of his desperation. So he forced himself to ask, “Do you want me to come with you when you tell her?”</p><p>The ungrateful idiot he had been in love with for seven years scoffed then, warm brown eyes watchful when they rested on him. “No, Martín, you have done enough already. But thank you.” </p><p>With those words and a gentle touch on his shoulder as farewell, Andrés left the room. </p><p>Alone, it felt as though the very walls of the room were closing in on him, trapping him, crushing him down under their weight. An anguished scream tore from his throat, but it sounded far away, like it didn't belong to him. The blood pounding in his ears was so loud that the first crash of something heavy hitting the wall didn't even register with him. He screamed again, the sharp twinge of splinters in his hand the only thing grounding him. His heart thudded in his chest. His hands shook. </p><p>Another wooden box crashed and broke against the wall. Crystal glasses soon followed. Wine spilled, some of it running red along his fingers like blood stains, like he tore his own heart out of his chest in a desperate attempt to fill the void Andrés created with his words. It made him cry harder, his chest growing tight. A wave of nausea hit him forcing him to sit down, exhausted.</p><p>He found himself sitting cross-legged on the floor, uncaring of broken crystal and spilled food around him, listening only to his labored breathing. The pomegranate, forgotten on the floor, caught his attention then, and his breaking sanity focused on it. The fruit was round and had the color of a sunset with its elegant shades of red and yellow. He absentmindedly played with it, rolling it between his palms, scratching the hard surface of the skin with his nails, trying to ground himself. </p><p>He would have stayed there for hours, lost to everything happening around him until someone found him, had it not been for Laura’s voice breaking through the fog that had settled over his mind.</p><p>Martín shot up then, thundering footsteps following in his wake, the shouts drawing closer and closer. He didn’t have to go far, and soon, he met Laura’s eyes over Andrés’ shoulders. She looked like one of Medusa’s victims, trapped forever in stoned horror, a glass of wine spilled at her feet. Something ugly crossed her face then. </p><p>“Of course, <em> he </em> knew,” was all she said before she walked past him, leaving the room.</p><p>Martín ignored her, all of his attention focused on the man standing still in the middle of the room, stone-faced, and Martin knew what had just transpired. </p><p> </p><p>‘She loved him’, indeed.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Here it is! Myra, my dear, I hope you'll enjoy the happy ending I gave them and that they deserved.</p><p>Thank Chrissy for stepping in as my beta when I couldn't see straight any more.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The announcement of Andrés’ illness and the end of his relationship with Laura had felt like the meeting of fire and gasoline. Laura’s vows ended up being short-lived, annulment papers finding their way to Andrés’ door bright and early the next morning, burying their relationship the moment she knew she would have to bury the man. </p><p>It had been eleven long months since that day and the only person left to witness the desperate and frantic efforts Andrés made to appear happy was Martín. Robberies became more numerous, riskier, but more exciting too, their proximity growing every day as a result. Like a man trying to bottle the essence of life, Andrés was pursuing a reckless and utopian goal; that of living his last few years without regret. He was always on the move, burning brightly but dangerously, an explosion of ideas and wants that Martín could only follow, his silent guardian and only companion in the dark hours where nightmares awaited.</p><p>This is how Martín found himself in the courtyard of a Tuscan monastery, surrounded by old stones, vegetation and silent monks. Despite the beauty of the building, he couldn't help but see the place as a tomb: magnificent, frozen in time, giving thanks to a bygone past. Andrés for that matter, or perhaps for this reason, adored it. And though they used the place to build a heist - more masterful and grandiloquent than any other - the monastery was still a home. </p><p><em> Their </em> home. Small pieces of Martín had slowly made their way into Andrés’ living space: a gramophone was tucked safely between expensive art books and way too many vinyls; engineering publications and science fiction novels littered the ground, provoking exaggerated sighs whenever Andrés tripped over them; an hideously colorful blanket had appeared one day, ruining the entire aesthetic of the place but staying all the same because it belonged to Martín.</p><p>Sergio visited them sometimes, bringing up chemotherapy with a strained smile only to be rebuked. “Why would I go through it?” Andrés would say, beaming like Death’s embrace couldn’t touch him, or maybe like he was waiting with anticipation for her lethal kiss. “To finish my life exhausted, without dignity, without pleasure, for the slim hope of getting out of it alive? A ghost of the man I am, hurting, unable to smell the perfume of a beautiful someone walking by or to appreciate the bouquet of a <em>Chianti</em>? No, no— I won’t end up like <em>her, </em>Sergio. Everything has an end. Until then, I will drink, eat, dance, and laugh with all the energy I have left.” </p><p>Invariably, Andrés would discuss a new plan, discussion forgotten, and invariably, Sergio would close off, putting distance between himself and his brother, scheming how best to persuade him. Martín had unfortunately found himself in enough dead-end talks to know how wretchedly useless it was.</p><p>Oh, he knew Andrés wasn’t as unaffected as he wanted to appear. It was easy for Martín to read the lines of worry on his best friend’s face or the unusual jumpiness when something reminded Andrés of his own mortality. He was softer too, during those long evenings of discussion where they curled by the fireplace to talk about art; or whenever they found themselves lying in the grass of the courtyard, watching the starry sky continue its inevitable course before their sleepy eyes. In these stolen moments, Martín saw the gentleness Andrés hid from the world. If he couldn't have anything other than those memories— of helping Andrés, listening to his passionate tirades about life, touching him with reassurance and affection when his voice became distant — well, it had to be enough. </p><p>(It wasn’t)</p><p>Despite the bitter-sweetness of their situation, Martín felt privileged and something fierce and possessive warmed him whenever he thought about it: it was not Maria or Laura soaking up every teasing smile, deep laugh and sleepy yawn Andrés made. Even when terror and regret ended up prevailing, Andrés lashing out like a wounded beast, Martín stayed. He stayed through months of tentative closeness followed by cruel outbursts designed to push him away; he stayed when Andrés started reaching out more, wrapping himself around Martín like a lover would; he stayed and kept staying, gaining new level of trust and affection from the other man with each passing day. </p><p>Martín could have enjoyed this perfect balance of too much and never enough for the rest of their time together, if not for Tatiana’s appearance in their lives. </p><p>Brilliant, intelligent, magnificent Tatiana, with her strawberry blonde curls and fake innocent airs. And he <em> should </em> have liked her. She wasn’t arrogant like Laura was. She never tried to come between Andrés and him, accepting Martín’s presence at Andrés’ side like it was the most natural thing in the world. They could have been friends if not for the interest she had shown Andrés as soon as their paths crossed. And, unsurprisingly, Andrés was not insensitive to it, smiling more sincerely around her than with any other woman since Maria's departure. </p><p>She had never set foot in their home, at least, and the monastery remained their sanctuary, secluded from the outside world by its austere arches and heavy walls. </p><p>If only it was enough to completely banish her presence.</p><p>Martín was currently slumped on one of the stone benches scattered across the courtyard of the monastery, enjoying the warmth of the sun against his skin. Or he would have appreciated it, if Andrés was not quietly discussing the young woman in question as he drew. Eyes closed, forearm resting against his eyes, Martín didn't really listen to his friend's words, choosing to be lulled by the sound of his voice and the friction of charcoal when it met paper.</p><p>It was something they did more and more as the weather became warmer, spending a quiet morning together, either here or simply strolling the street of <em> Firenze </em>, talking in low voice until Andrés’ eyes caught sight of something of someone pretty enough to be immortalized in the large sketchbook that never left his side. Martín had been aware that Andrés liked drawing — it would have been difficult not too, with all the art talk he had to put up with — but in recent months, his passion took more and more space in their lives. It had a calming effect on him, and Martín no longer counted the hours spent admiring Andrés, the world around him fading into an inconsequential blur, his eyes moving between model and sketch in a strange dance.  </p><p>Martín turned his head toward the scratching sound of lead against paper, half-opening his eyes, and the vision that awaited him did not disappoint. Andrés had rolled up the sleeves of his scarlet shirt, revealing his taut forearms. Even at this distance, he could see that the artist's fingers and wrists were blackened by the messy nature of his work. There was something fascinating about watching him, one hand actively drawing, the second correcting details and blurring what was not satisfactory, both hands working in tandem. But as incredible as the skill was, it sometimes bothered Martín, as if his friend’s every moment could be the last and that every drawing had to be finished as quickly as possible, as not to leave something unfinished. </p><p>“Martín, stop moving,” demanded Andrés, annoyed.</p><p>The imperative tone made him grin despite himself, and Martín had to ask “Why?” petulantly. </p><p>“You changed positions,” he said, growing more irritated. “And you're not listening to me. Am I that annoying?”</p><p>Martín answered in a surprised outburst. “You’re drawing me? Well,” he said, a flirting smile stretching his lips that Andrés scoffed at, “I was not aware that I was handsome enough to appear in one of your drawings. I’m flattered.”</p><p>Andrés’ sound of dismissal was contradicted by an appraising look that left Martín feeling parched. He straightened up on his forearm, angling his body entirely toward the artist, exposing himself like some teasing renaissance model.</p><p>“But,” he insisted without any sense of self-preservation, “you were talking about Tatiana.”</p><p>“And? I can do several things at the same time,” Andrés replied, trying to cover his pained smile by looking down at his sketchbook. He looked uncharacteristically hesitant though it didn’t last long, Andrés surprising Martín when he rose from his seat, walking with assurance toward him. He didn’t understand his purpose until Andrés spoke again: “I told you not to move. Don’t ruin it, I’m almost done.” </p><p>Martín tried repressing the smug smile forming on his lips, but he couldn’t once confronted with Andrés hands pushing him back into whatever counted as ‘an appropriate position’. It made him hyper-aware of everything around him, from the chirping of the birds nearby to the heady and woody scent of Andrés’ perfume. It was intoxicating and highly distracting, leaving his next words to fall from his lips before he could second guess them.</p><p>“Why are you even taking such an interest in her all of a sudden? You don’t love her.”</p><p>His words stopped Andrés, the hands reaching for him dropping and forming fists at his sides.</p><p>“I <em> could</em>.”</p><p>Martín rolled his eyes. “You could come to love anyone with good looks and enough of a brain, Andrés. Sometimes I wonder why you’re so desperate for love that you would choose the first person walking your way. She doesn’t even know you.”</p><p>The playful atmosphere from before was dispelled by the violent storm brewing in Andrés’ eyes and Martín wished he could take his words back. With his jealousy simmering high because of Tatiana, too much truth came out with too little gentleness. Nothing untrue, but nothing he would have said if not for the potent mix of being sleepy from lazing in the sun for so long and intensely green just thinking of the absent woman.</p><p>“Compared to what,” Andrés mocked with a cruel smirk, “Yourself?”</p><p>Martín backed away as if he had been physically struck. Months of helplessness suddenly caught up with him, and he ran a furious hand through his hair. Deep down, he always knew Andrés wasn’t blind to the meaning of his desperate devotion, but he never thought the man he loved would use it against him and outright mock him for it. Andrés had been looking for a fight recently, one that Martín had refused to give to him, until now. </p><p>“Do you ever stop to think about <em> why </em> they didn’t stay? Susie, Beatrice, Maria, Laura… it’s always the same. And now, Tatiana.” Martín bit the inside of his mouth before smiling savagely, tasting copper and enjoying the tang of it in anticipation of the fight to come. “You’re not boring me Andrés, I just already heard it all before.”</p><p>“Are you done with your little tantrum?” Andrés said mockingly, voice dripping with contempt.</p><p>“<em>Don’t you dare talk to me like I’m a kid! </em>Do you think I’m blind or stupid? I know what you’re doing.” </p><p>“You know nothing,” growled Andrés in answer, “and you’re fucking projecting your own <em>desperate </em>need to be loved on m—” but Martín refused to hear more bullshit coming from his mouth and pushed him back with angry hands and angry words, the sketch book falling between them, forgotten. </p><p>He closed the distance between them, coming up in Andrés’ face, throwing himself head first into the argument, words he had been keeping inside for years finally bubbling over.  </p><p>“You’re afraid!” he blurted, arms flailing around in agitation. “You think you’re so smart, you think you’re fooling everyone but you’re not! I <em> see you</em>. Maybe Sergio buys your bullshit mentality about you ‘enjoying the rest of your days’ or whatever shit you’re spinning for him but you’re fucking scared!” </p><p>He started pacing uselessly, furious and daring Andrés to say something to contradict him.</p><p>“I’m <em> not </em>,” Andrés lied. “I’ve made my peace with it, as you fucking should.” </p><p>“You don’t want to die, <em>malparido</em>!” he snarled, gripping Andrés fiercely by his clothes and shaking him twice before pushing him back again, uncertain that next time he reached for him it wouldn’t be to punch him, or worse— kiss him. “That’s why you’re doing everything at once you don’t want to miss out and you sure don’t want to die alone. But you won’t open up. To anyone. Tatiana will be like the rest of them because you never let anyone close enough to see you. But <em>I do, </em>Andrés. You fucking wish I wouldn't <em>reverendo hijo de re mil puta</em> but I do, and you’re scared of that, so you’re latching on to Tatiana because when you die she won’t miss you, she won’t break, she—”</p><p>The salty taste of tears registered then, and he had to choke on a sob.</p><p>“Because she’s safe. Like everyone else in your life.” </p><p>And was that not the greatest irony of Martín’s life? Breaking down in front of someone who would never love him back, because he got too invested, because he cared so much he wouldn’t let one minute of their time pass by him despite the cost to his own heart. Even when he, like everyone else, was someone’s Andrés didn’t care enough to keep safe.</p><p>“You’re protecting Sergio, you always have and always will. But there isn't space for something else, isn’t it? Because you can’t afford to love someone enough that you would regret leaving them behind. Because you don’t want to find a reason to live. Because once the fight comes, you can’t face the risk of losing that battle! You’re just a coward.”</p><p>Andrés had been stonily silent from the moment he noticed his tears, but when he finally spoke again there was nothing sympathetic in his voice, only cold fury. “And what would you have me do? Fight<em> for you </em>?”</p><p>“I’m— I’m just convenient for you, useful for the plan but it’s not like you need <em> me </em> here, I just—” he said frantically, “I just don’t matter!” </p><p>And just like that he was leaving, walking away from the person he most wanted to be with, trying to extinguish the ugly emotions consuming him. Or trying to, at least, because quick fingers closed around his wrist and between one breath and the next Martín was jerked back and confronted with Andrés’ distraught face and wild eyes.</p><p>“No! No, <em> cariño, </em> ” Andrés said then, alarmed, “some people matt— <em> you matter </em> Martín, I—”</p><p>“Don’t lie to—”</p><p>Someone cleared their throat loudly in their vicinity, making angry words wither and die. </p><p>“……… Are we……… interrupting?” Giovanni hesitantly said, clearly torn between wanting to leave as quickly as possible and the need to break up the fight going on. He wasn’t alone, the silent men transporting food and parchments in their arms behind him were watching them warily.</p><p>The heated contact of Andrés’ grip around his wrist disappeared at that, and Martín had front row seats to his transformation from anguish to bland and kind politeness. </p><p>“Nothing to worry about.” Andrés said. “Did you need something?”</p><p>A deeper frown than usual marred Giovanni’s forehead but still he came closer, offering an explanation for his presence and a basket full of fresh fruits and vegetables. Unable to continue their conversation but unwilling to leave without some sort of resolution, Martín clenched his jaw, glancing at the basket. He rolled his eyes disdainfully when he noticed the pomegranates scattered among other fruits, recalling the last time he saw one without fondness. Andrés’ eyes followed his gaze and took the basket into his hesitant hands, thanking the monks with a few dismissive words.</p><p>Soon enough, they were alone again.</p><p>The silence stretched between them, a terrible weight crushing the words Martín wished he could say before they had a chance to form. He wouldn’t apologise even if he was able to talk; the deadly cocktail of anger, hurt and shame simmering in his stomach would not allow it. In truth, he felt like he was <em> owed </em> an apology, one that would never come. But something — <em> anything </em> — needed to be said if Martín didn’t want to lose the man before their time was even up. Andrés might not need him, but Martín did, desperately. </p><p>Andrés’s voice, when it finally emerged, had an odd note to it. “Did you mean it?”, he asked, and Martín didn’t know to which part of their dispute his friend was referring to but the answer wouldn’t change even if he knew. “Yes,” he replied wearily, preparing himself to be brushed off, or worse, mocked. </p><p>Instead, Andrés grimaced and gave an absent-minded nod of assent. A small defeated breath escaped him, his whole body slumping like someone cut the invisible threads keeping him together. </p><p>“Come,” he demanded, taking a few steps toward the previously occupied bench, before darting a glance back at Martín and correcting himself, “Please.” </p><p>Martín followed, feeling like a planet revolving around Andrés’ heart, unable to resist the pull, unwilling to escape. He sat obediently where his best friend gestured but folded his arms across his chest, guarded. Despite the torrents of emotion streaming through him he remained silent, observing Andrés retrieve his precious sketchbook and charcoal, only then coming back to sit near him. It was strange, how Andrés seemed reluctant to act on whatever was crossing his mind and darkening his thoughts, playing nervously with the black stick and staining the pulp of his fingers in the process. “This is stupid,” Andrés murmured, shaking his head before extending his sketchbook, open on its first page. </p><p>A rush of air left Martín’s lungs when he saw his own face looking up at him in hues of grey save for the shocking blue of his eyes. He tore his gaze away from the sketch long enough to search Andrés’ profile for answers and the uncertainty he found there destabilized him more than the brutal change in the air. </p><p>“Do you know what I wanted to tell you that day in the cellar?” started Andrés, voice soft now that the storm had passed. “Before Laura left me?”</p><p><em> This is not happening </em> , Martín reminded himself firmly, <em> this can’t be real, it’s not what I think it is, it’s not it can’t it can’t it can’t— </em> but he swallowed under Andrés’ scrutiny, slowly shaking his head to show his ignorance. </p><p>Focusing on the sketchbook suddenly felt safer to Martín and he turned a few pages of high quality paper until another drawing of himself startled him. He was asleep this time, his head half burrowed between his crossed forearms, and it made him look softer than he thought he could ever be. He had always been brash and loud around people, wearing his armoured heart on his chest, sword ready to pierce anyone coming too close for his comfort. But there, in the softly drawn strokes meant to depict the exhausting hours spent on complicated calculations for <em> their </em> plan <em> , </em>hidden in the softness of his unguarded sleep — though maybe not so unprotected — Martín realised. </p><p>
  <em> It was two years ago.  </em>
</p><p>He went through each page and discovered more innocent moments of their everyday life, immortalized with care. When he eventually came back to the drawing started earlier in the day, Martín’s eyes snapped back to his best friend’s with disbelief, looking for a clue in his silence, an explanation for all of this. The other man didn’t seem in any hurry to give one, distracting his nervous hands with a pomegranate he took from the basket, a knife lodged in its skin, cutting the fruit precisely and opening it with an audible crack.</p><p>Nothing made sense anymore, he felt lost, paralyzed by the whiplash Andrés was giving him and when the man enquired again “Well, do you?” Martín wasn’t even sure what was being asked anymore so he simply shook his head to answer.</p><p>“That day,” Andrés said, smirking at his unsubtle reaction but voice and demeanor staying soft, “I had a revelation. I promised myself I wouldn’t act on what the promise of death had brought to my attention but I still left the party to look for you.” He paused, presenting half of the fruit to Martín, clusters of scarlet seeds exposed. “I told you about pomegranates.” His confusion must have been obvious because Andrés chuckled, and Martín would have thought he sounded nervous if not for the way the man was watching him, calm and assertive. </p><p>“I thought of the God of the Underworld, of the myth of Hades and Persephone, of the secret meaning of those seeds, symbol of life, rebirth and indissoluble marriage.” He paused then, scoffing with self-depreciation, “A symbol of happily ever after.”  </p><p>It was impossible. </p><p>It couldn’t be happening. </p><p>This sort of thing never happened. Not to <em> him </em>. Love was a foolish errand, a beautiful chimera Martín would never catch. And Martín knew— he just knew he wasn’t worth it. He was serious when he yelled about not being enough for anyone. So this, all of this, it was a bitter dream, because Andrés couldn’t be talking about those cursed seeds in any kind of relation to him. </p><p>Still, Andrés continued. “By eating a few pomegranate seeds, Persephone tied herself to Hades. One seed for each month she would stay with him, for every year to come, forever.” Then, the impossible man ran the tip of his fingers on one side of the bleeding fruit, painting them red, and closed the distance between them. He leaned forward just enough to caress the drawn lips of the man innocently sleeping on paper, coloring them softly, saying: “I thought, ‘if I have to go, let me take the one thing so precious I can’t leave it behind’.”</p><p>Under the assault of his fluttering heart, Martín was powerless to talk, as it would certainly jump out of his chest if he dared to break the spell. He shifted in his seat and a shuddering breath came tumbling out when Andrés’ eyes focused on his untouched by colour lips. Suddenly, fingers darkened by charcoal and pomegranate juice were caressing the arch of Martín’s cupid bow, leaving behind a pinkish stain that ignited a slow, simmering heat in his belly. Warm, rich, searing eyes were piercing him, and it took Martín more time that he would have liked to react to Andrés’ words.</p><p>“What?” Martín said a bit dazzled, unable to stop himself from quickly wetting his lips, his throat constricting even more when he tasted the bitterness of the pomegranate juice now gracing his face where his best friend’s hands trailed.</p><p>“Do you think I don’t love you?” Andrés asked, like he hadn’t just flipped Martin’s world on its axis with seven little words, “Hades was stupid, <em> mi alma</em>. You would have tasted twelve pomegranate seeds, straight from my fingers, if it was my decision to make.”</p><p><em> Oh</em>. Martín swallowed hard.</p><p>“I’ve never tasted pomegranate seeds.” His voice was wrecked. He felt wrecked.</p><p>Andrés —the absolute fucker— only tucked his face down and tried to avoid the consequence of his confession, because it <em> was a confession, Martín wasn’t dreaming. </em> With a derisive smile, his friend collected a few seeds in his hands and ate them right in front of him.</p><p>“It might not be very prudent,” Andrés said, “it doesn’t change anyth—”</p><p>Martín reached for him, only listening to the deafening sound of the blood rushing to his head when he dragged Andrés in a bruising kiss, biting his bottom lip and chasing after the taste of pomegranate. Something shattered in him, a dam opening, and months, <em> years </em> of hope, of dream, of picturing this moment couldn’t have prepared him for the reality of this kiss. He was burning, engulfed in the heat of Andrés’ mouth. It was addicting and Martín wished he could come even closer, that he could take everything the man he loved could offer and then more, that he could surrender to the wave of love that was crushing against him without feeling like he was drowning. </p><p>It was almost <em> too much </em> . The astringent taste of the pomegranate, the chapped lips against his, the strong arms <em> finally </em> around him, the same he kept feeling at the edges of his dreams; better than any fantasy he had come up with, shyly under the secure cover of the night. It was all the things he yearned for, thinking <em> he’ll never love me back </em> but that were now his for the taking. Andrés took a shuddering breath and, pressed as they were, Martín could feel their maddening heartbeats against his own chest. The hands that found their way at the base of Martín’s head kept tightening, grabbing at his short hair like he would be the one who might leave— and wasn’t it the most ridiculous and magnificent thought? Andrés being desperate. For him. </p><p>Not unexpectedly, Andrés chose that moment to pull back, panting softly and staring at Martín with something urgent and conflicted in his gaze. </p><p>“It’s impossible,” Andrés mouthed, but soft kisses were being dropped all over Martín’s face, soft brush of lips against his jaw, his cheekbones, his temples and Martín <em> hated </em> him, almost as much as he loved him. </p><p>“I’ll eat them,” he settled on saying, “Twelve of them, like in your stupid story, if you would only have me.” With the press of his fingers against the lips that he just kissed, he silenced Andrés’ rejection. “Don’t be a coward,” Martín implored, voice breaking when he felt loving hands caressing his neck. </p><p>“I should leave you. For love. For our friendship. <em> To find peace</em>.”</p><p>Martín closed his eyes to shield himself against the pain the words provoked, knocking softly his forehead against Andrés’. “You could fight,” he said, “but I suppose i’m not enough for you to try to gain more time.”</p><p>Andrés scoffed at that. “You’re everything, <em> cariño. </em> You’re worth all the time in the world, worth far more than I could offer you, that’s why I can’t—” </p><p>Martín shut him up again and the answering sound — deep, on the edge of a growl and ripped from Andrés’ throat — made Martín’s knees buckle with want. He hoisted Andrés up onto his legs then, pulling him snuggly against him by the waist, his other hand burrowing into Andrés’ hair. </p><p>He refused to lose this. </p><p>“I love you,” Martín said urgently, pressing open-mouthed kisses to the hollow of Andrés’ throat “I love you more than anything.” It was overwhelming, finally saying it outloud, and he hid his face against the soft skin he had just kissed. He felt the moment Andrés stopped fighting against this, against <em> us </em>, simply melting in Martín’s comforting embrace. </p><p>“Okay,” Andrés breathed softly, a terrified little laugh escaping him, “Okay. You win.” </p><p>“I do?” he couldn’t help but ask, and Andrés leaned in to kiss him softly in return, slow and careful. Eyes shut, arms wrapped around the man he loved, Martín was dimly aware of the soft strokes against his cheek, of the fingernails grazing the skin just behind his ears, and he made a strangled noise at that. <em> Fuck </em>, he thought, but nothing could stop him from basking in the novel feeling of being cherished. </p><p>When they finally broke apart, panting, Martín grinned rather triumphantly. “Do I win?”</p><p>“You do,” answered Andrés, rolling his eyes with fond irritation. Just like that, like what he was agreeing to was not something he had fought against ardently, like he didn’t decide to do the very thing that he had refused to consider for months. </p><p>Martín laughed breathlessly against Andrés’ mouth, the sound bubbling out of him with delight. He was light with joy, dizzy with love. “Good,” he said, and then, because he could never have enough of this man, Martín said, “Now, feed me twelve pomegranate seeds and kiss me again.”</p><p>Andrés obliged. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>And this is it! Thank you all so much for the comments and kudos you left on chapter 1 ♥</p><p>New stories are already in the work, but until then you can find me on Twitter: @Cacilie_Blaas</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Next chapter should appear in the next few days since it's only missing the end. I hope you enjoyed it! &lt;3</p><p>Until then, you can find me on Twitter: @Cacilie_Blaas</p></blockquote></div></div>
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